Ultimate Reckoning
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A ghost puts Roarke's and Leslie's relationship to its strongest test yet. Follows 'Epiphany'.
1. Prologue

§ § § -- April 25, 1965: _Prologue_

Roarke waited silently behind his desk, eyes unfocused, in another world entirely. Tattoo, compiling a list of errands to run that day, gave him the occasional sidewise glance before finally capitulating to his growing unease. "Boss, are you feeling all right?"

Roarke came to with a blink, but continued to stare at some indeterminate spot. "Yes, my friend," he said absently. "I am merely considering the Hamilton fantasy. It has developed…certain complications."

"If you need any help…" Tattoo began hesitantly.

Roarke turned to him then and smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would appreciate it if you would remain here during Mrs. Hamilton's final session. If you would be so kind as to close the shutters and then wait here beside the desk?" Tattoo nodded and went about carrying out the request; he had just latched the shutters on the second window when Shannon Hamilton came into the office, arms wrapped firmly around her swollen midsection. He turned to study her in concern.

"You're not in labor, are you, Mrs. Hamilton?" Tattoo questioned.

Roarke frowned in his direction. "Tattoo," he said reprovingly.

"I'm only worried for the lady," Tattoo riposted, looking wounded.

"I'm already slightly overdue," Shannon put in. "Are you very sure about the date you gave me yesterday, Mr. Roarke?"

"You will give birth on May sixth, and not before," Roarke said firmly, ostensibly speaking to Shannon but aiming his words at Tattoo. The young Frenchman shrugged affably and smiled a little.

"Okay, boss, if you say so," he said. "Everything's ready."

Roarke nodded. "Very good, my friend, thank you." He indicated Shannon's chair and sat down in tandem with her. "Are you ready?"

Shannon hesitated. "I had a dream last night, Mr. Roarke," she said without preamble. "A nightmare really. All I could see was fire everywhere, nothing but fire, and I heard a little girl crying out for her mother. It was the most horrible dream I've ever had."

Roarke's gaze sharpened. So she, too, had dreamed. There was no doubt left in his mind that it had to be some sort of crude premonition. "I suggest we begin your final session now, so that we can answer your questions once and for all," he said. "I suspect we will learn all we need to know with this glimpse into Leslie's future." So saying, he again placed his hands on Shannon's temples. The room seemed to darken of its own accord; Tattoo retreated behind Roarke's desk and watched silently.

About a full minute passed before Roarke released Shannon and directed her attention to the latest tableau. This time the setting was the yard surrounding a modest two-story house that had the vague look of a Swiss chateau about it, with scalloped edging along the sloping eaves and exterior window shutters containing heart-shaped cutouts. There was a small but sturdy shade tree some distance from the house. The time seemed to be early evening, and the front door was open. Leslie, noticeably older here than in the first two visions Roarke had shown Shannon, stood on the steps, apparently waiting for something.

"That's not our house," Shannon said.

"No, you will be living in California by then," Roarke explained. "Leslie is now thirteen years old."

Shannon saw herself appear at the open front door. _"Here's your bag, Leslie,"_ she said, handing a duffel bag through the door.

"_Did you get that photo album I wanted to show Cindy Lou?"_ Leslie asked.

"_Yes, I packed it in the bag,"_ Shannon replied_. "Have fun, and don't keep the Brookses up all night, okay? Hurry now, before your father gets home."_

"_Oh yeah,"_ Leslie said, looking vaguely alarmed. _"See you in the morning, Mom!"_ Both the present and the future Shannon watched the girl trot across the yard; the perspective followed Leslie as if via a movie camera. After a moment a pair of car headlights popped into view in the near distance, and Leslie dashed to the roadside and secreted herself within a stand of tall bushes.

"What on earth…?" Shannon muttered, completely perplexed.

"She is afraid of her father," Roarke said, almost in a whisper. Shannon spared him one glance of sheer confusion and returned her intense scrutiny to the scene playing out before them.

The car pulled into the driveway of the house, and Shannon watched Michael get out, carrying something bulky in one hand. From the way he toted it, it had some weight. He passed the car and strode up the driveway, disappearing up the far side of the house, and for a long moment there was silence. The scene seemed frozen in time; Roarke didn't speak, and Shannon was afraid to.

Then Leslie appeared at the edge of the yard, moving slowly toward the front door and scanning either side of the house. No sooner had she come abreast of the tree than they spied Michael coming around from the back of the house. Instantly Leslie swung herself into the lowermost branches of the tree and climbed up enough to vanish from sight, while Michael moved with strange sideways steps along the perimeter of the house, tilting the bulky object as he did so. From time to time he stopped and heaved the object up as if to throw it, but didn't let go. He would then lower it and continue moving.

"I don't understand this," Shannon said incredulously. Her own voice sounded too loud in the unnatural silence; unnoticed behind the desk, Tattoo gave a violent start at the sound. Roarke sat perfectly still.

"Wait, Mrs. Hamilton," he cautioned quietly.

The darkness had grown almost total now, so that they could no longer see anything clearly. The only sound was that of crickets chirping; there wasn't even a moon. A light went on in an upstairs window, painting a faint square of gold on the grass, and then there came the sound of a central air-conditioning unit switching itself on.

A fraction of a second later, the entire house exploded into flames. Tattoo actually jumped a couple of inches off the floor and grabbed the edge of the desk, his dark eyes huge with horror. Shannon screamed in instant hysteria; even Roarke reared back a little in the chair, momentarily stunned. The fire silhouetted everything in front of it, allowing them all to see the small figure drop out of the tree and land flat on the grass. Over the roaring of the fire, they could hear screams of terror and intolerable pain. The figure in the grass picked herself up and edged across the yard, as near the fire as she dared get, screaming in panic. _"Mom! Mommy, where are you? Mom!"_

"Oh God," Shannon shrieked and burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. Roarke stared for another moment, long enough to see a human figure totally engulfed in flame raise its arms and then collapse to the ground, never to move again. He winced and unobtrusively swept a hand through the air in the direction of the tableau, which promptly vanished. The room reverted to normal daylight, and Roarke drew in a long breath to steady himself before reaching out to Shannon to try to give some comfort. He could see Tattoo standing frozen at the desk, round face a mask of shock, muttering to himself in French.

"Tattoo…" Roarke said quietly, catching his assistant's attention, and gestured at the windows. Still looking stunned, Tattoo automatically headed for the windows, and Roarke turned to a sobbing Shannon. "Please, Mrs. Hamilton, calm yourself. Please, so that we can discuss this."

Shannon lifted an agonized face to his and made a heroic effort to get her emotions under control. In spite of her near-hysteria, Roarke could see that along with the panic and horror in her eyes, there was resignation, almost a foreknowledge. When Shannon could speak again, she said flatly, "Michael and I and the twins will die in that fire, Mr. Roarke, won't we? It's the curse."

Roarke nodded, closing his eyes for a moment as he did so. "Yes, and Leslie will be the only survivor. That is the meaning of your dream last night, Mrs. Hamilton."

Shannon froze again with renewed shock. "Oh no…oh God…no…" She began to hyperventilate, and Roarke hastily settled her back into her chair and whipped the black handkerchief from the breast pocket of his white jacket. Holding it to her mouth, he urgently instructed her to breathe slowly and deeply.

By the time Tattoo had finished opening the shutters and had managed to regain his composure, Shannon had settled down enough for her brain to function again. "So the curse is going to get us too," she muttered, half to herself. "But there has to be a reason Leslie lives through that fire." She looked up at Roarke. "Since this is the future you showed me, and since she'll have no one left on earth after we're gone, I want you to promise that you'll bring her here to Fantasy Island after that fire and help her break the curse, and give her a home until she's grown."

Roarke stared at her in amazement, and Tattoo goggled. "Raise your daughter?" he blurted. "Is that what you're saying—you want the boss to take Leslie in?"

"My daughter will be completely alone in the world after that fire," Shannon said, her sense of urgency propelling her to her feet with a speed that belied her advanced pregnancy. "She won't have anyone to turn to. If you can't do anything to change this future, Mr. Roarke, then you can at least protect my daughter. Maybe you and Leslie will find a way to break that damned curse once and for all. But she can't do it alone, and you're the only one in the world who has the power and ability to help her. You're the last hope either she or I will have. Please, Mr. Roarke, I beg you!"

Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other for a long moment. It was true; she was right. There was no arguing her point. Roarke knew for a fact that, for whatever reason, Michael Hamilton had planned to send his family up in flames by throwing some sort of flammable accelerant—probably gasoline—on the house. When the air conditioner turned itself on, there must have been a spark that set off the fire, catching Michael in his own trap but miraculously sparing Leslie. This was the future he had shown the child's mother, and there was no changing it. Some force greater than he was at work, trying for whatever twisted reason to completely destroy this family. He could hardly refuse Shannon Hamilton in the face of what they had seen this weekend.

He sighed softly, then smiled a little and nodded. "Very well, Mrs. Hamilton, this will be the final fulfillment of your fantasy. I will give your daughter a home when the time comes. She will be in good hands—this I promise you."


	2. Chapter 1

§ § § -- January 12, 1992

_The flames soared to unearthly heights all around her; she could see nothing but fire wherever she looked. Everything was golden with flame; voices screamed in the far distance, so removed from her that she wasn't sure she heard them. The rushing roar of a new explosion of fire drowned them out, and from nowhere a massive burning timber toppled toward her, crashing at her feet with starbursts of sparks. She screamed and leaped back. Someone was laughing…_

"Leslie!" She came awake in the dark bedroom as someone grasped her arms and pulled her abruptly into a sitting position. Blinking to clear her head, she realized that it was Roarke, whose eyes gleamed with alarm in the light from the hallway outside her door. "Leslie, are you all right?"

She stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "The nightmare," she said.

Roarke frowned. "Why would you have it now?"

"I don't know. This time I really don't know," she said, shaking her head. "I can't pin it on any particular problem the way I always used to. Tonight it just…happened." She paused long enough for a realization to hit her, and she gaped at Roarke with new shock. "But this time, I actually remember it—every detail."

Roarke's stare grew more intense. "Tell me," he ordered urgently.

She described the dream, and he mulled over what she had told him, trying to make sense out of what sounded like abstract imagery. After a long moment he slowly shook his head. "If you can, Leslie, think back to the previous times you had this dream, and try to call back a memory of any kind. Do you think this is the same dream you've always had?"

She closed her eyes, forehead creasing with close concentration, and finally drew her lower lip between her teeth in slow motion. "The one image I can ever remember after I woke up was fire," she said. "Nothing but fire all around me, just like this time. I think it _is_ the same dream, Mr. Roarke. I'm so tired of this nightmare. I want it to stop, forever."

"Naturally," Roarke agreed. "Perhaps there _is_ some reason for its appearance now, without readily apparent cause. For now, try to get some sleep, and we will examine it in the morning if there is time."

There wasn't; but the matter wouldn't be abandoned, for the next night Leslie dreamed again. This time, in addition to the same images of fire and the sight of the burning timber and sound of laughter, she saw the house in Susanville, being consumed by flames. The laughter grew into a scream of unimaginable pain, and she was jarred wide awake at that point, though she didn't cry out. But Roarke appeared in the doorway nevertheless.

"You had the nightmare again," he said.

Leslie nodded and told him what she had seen. Roarke frowned, shook his head, then sighed deeply. "Perhaps…" he murmured, mostly to himself, thought, then gave in. "It's late. Go back to sleep, and perhaps we will be able to look at it more closely later."

Not till Thursday morning did they at last find an opportunity to scrutinize the nightmare. By now it had reached the point where she was reliving the night she had been orphaned, in such precise detail that it differed very little from her actual memory of it. She was still shaken at breakfast that morning, not quite able to muster up any appetite, feeling a touch sick to her stomach.

Roarke looked up. "How did the dream change last night?" he asked.

She paled noticeably and had to clear her throat before she could speak. "I might as well have been thirteen again and reliving that last night in Susanville," she said.

Roarke's gaze sharpened and he gave her his full attention. "Tell me exactly what you saw that night," he said. "Not what you saw in the dream, but what you remember from the actual night of the fire."

Leslie considered this, wondering just where to start, then sighed softly and began, "I had just said goodbye to Mom, and I crossed the front yard to go up the street to Cindy Lou's house. But then I saw the headlights of Michael Hamilton's car turn into the street, and I hid in the neighbor's hedge across the street from us." Her gaze drifted, losing focus as she replayed the memory. "I watched him get out of the car, and I was waiting for him to go inside so I could come out of hiding and escape to Cindy Lou's…but he didn't go in. He was carrying something—now that I think about it, it looked like a gasoline can—and it must have been full because I could see he was exerting some effort to tote it around. In fact, he started at the corner of the house nearest to the driveway and started making tossing motions with the can, like this." She focused on Roarke long enough to demonstrate. "But he didn't throw the can itself, just what was in it. I could hear splashing sounds. He started working his way toward the back of the house, and I came out of the bushes when he disappeared around the corner…I thought maybe I should tell Mom that he was acting funny. But I was moving slowly, trying not to make any noise so he wouldn't hear me, and it took me too long to get back to the front door. So when he came out from behind the house, on the other side, I had to climb the tree to prevent him seeing me there.

"I could still see him through the leaves…splashing the contents of that can on the outside walls of the house, working his way around to the front. He was muttering to himself, but I couldn't quite make out his words." Leslie fell silent, closing her eyes and giving careful scrutiny to that aspect of the memory, in the hope of deciphering what he had said. But it wouldn't come into focus, and she finally gave up and shook her head. "No, I can't make it come out. Well…I do remember him starting to laugh at one point. Then I heard the air conditioner switch on. Just like that, the house blew up.

"It was the most unreal thing I'd ever seen. All I could think was, _I have to get Mom and the twins._ But the house was just covered in gasoline and it had been dry all summer on top of that…and it just went up like so much paper. I must have lost my grip on the branch, because all of a sudden I felt myself falling out of the tree. I can't really remember landing on the ground—I was just there, it seems like. And I started screaming for Mom…but she didn't answer. No one did…I think my brain just stopped working for awhile after that, because all I remember now is waiting for Mom to come out. Even after the fire department got there and started hosing the place down…it took them almost two hours to put out the fire, and by then there was just about nothing left. Just the timbers, all black and smoking, like the skeleton of the house. And I was still waiting…" Leslie's voice trailed off at last and she closed her eyes again; her eyelashes grew damp, and a tear leaked out.

Roarke reached out and covered her hand with his, squeezing gently. She had spoken mostly in a monotone, all but racing through her narrative as if in a hurry to get it over with and stop concentrating on it. He couldn't blame her; the memory almost perfectly matched the vision he still clearly remembered showing her mother many years before. She had failed to mention the sight of Michael Hamilton, drenched in gasoline, being killed in his own fiery trap right there in the open, practically in front of her; perhaps she actually hadn't seen it. It was possible; it sounded as though she had been too intent on willing her mother out of the house to pay attention to anything else.

After a moment he gently brushed away the tear, smiling briefly when she opened her eyes. "I believe the time has finally come for you to confront your anger with Michael Hamilton," he told her. "And as I have said on various occasions in the past, I will help you deal with it."

"Can you give me something to sleep through the night tonight?" Leslie asked. "You did that once before, when you and I last battled Mephistopheles."

Roarke considered this. "I suspect these dreams are sending you a message," he said. "Though I realize they are painful for you, I think it's better this time that we let them happen." His features took on a thoughtful cast before he asked, "Exactly how old were you when the fire occurred, Leslie?"

"That was out of left field," she said in surprise. "How exact do you mean?"

"To the day," he said.

Leslie's gaze drifted away for a moment while she calculated. "Thirteen years, four months…from May to September…and the fire was on the ninth, so that makes three days."

Roarke calculated in his turn. "You are now twenty-six years, eight months and ten days old. The first dream occurred four days ago, when you were exactly twice the age you were the night of the fire. There must be some significance in that." He frowned, falling silent and ruminating. "I'll have to look into the matter more closely. Meantime, try to calm down and continue on as you normally do. Don't worry, Leslie—I promise you, we will get to the heart of the matter." He smiled and patted her hand. "Have some breakfast; we have a full day ahead of us."

Leslie regarded him curiously. "Just one question, Mr. Roarke," she said. "What made you come up with the question about my age?"

"The simple fact that it has taken so many years since the fire for the day to finally arrive when you were obligated to confront the issue. If your age made no difference, this would have happened long ago. Perhaps it's as well; now that you are an adult, you have more strength and more experience."

"That may be, but I'll still need your help," she reminded him.

Roarke chuckled softly. "Yes, I suspect so," he said. "I have other suspicions about this problem as well; but they must wait to be addressed."


	3. Chapter 2

§ § § -- January 17, 1992

Late Friday night, after Leslie had gone reluctantly to bed, Roarke played a hunch and remained in the study for awhile, using the time to clear away some of the endless paperwork. His instincts had been active all day, and he wanted the chance to find out if they were right.

It took some time, and at first it was nothing more than the unusually cool breeze that suddenly wafted into the room through the open French shutters. But it was all the signal Roarke needed. He looked up, frowned, then closed a folder and arose from the desk, turning to gaze onto the terrace. He stood silently, waiting, while a stronger gust of wind eddied around the terrace and stirred the air in the study. The third time this happened, he shook his head slightly. "Enough," he called out, without raising his voice to the point where Leslie would be awakened. "Show yourself."

A glowing mist flickered fitfully into sight, slowly resolving into the vague silhouette of a human form, then gradually coalescing to reveal a man in his late forties. He had the look of someone who feels that life has unfairly beaten him down; his clothing was rumpled and scorched, and he bore burn marks on every bit of exposed skin. Curiously, in one hand he held a gasoline can; Roarke noted this with some surprise.

"Recognize the analogy?" the figure asked sourly, seeing where Roarke's gaze was directed. "A nice literary touch."

"Indeed," Roarke said, raising his eyebrows. He studied the man in front of him for a moment, then said reflectively, "So you are Michael Hamilton, then."

"A damn shame, isn't it?" Hamilton agreed. "And I'm sure Leslie would agree."

Roarke regarded him coolly. "I don't presume to convey Leslie's feelings toward you. Rather, shall we simply get to the point, Mr. Hamilton? You are the one who has been invading her dreams these last several nights, and indeed for the past thirteen years—ever since the night you destroyed everything she had ever known."

"It was the only way I was allowed to communicate with her," Hamilton said defensively. "And before you tell me what a lousy way it was, you should know that I wasn't the one in control of what I can or can't do. You'll have to talk to someone else."

"Oh, that I shall, in due time," Roarke said. "But there is one question that only you can answer. Why have you plagued Leslie with nightmares for all these years?"

"I need her help," Hamilton muttered, obviously reluctant to admit it. "I knew I'd need her help not too long after the fire. She had nightmares before she came here, but I had nothing to do with those. After Shannon's will was read and Leslie was sent to your island, I had the opportunity to try to send her messages through those dreams." He rolled his eyes all of a sudden. "I suppose Shannon told you back in '65 that I tried to talk her out of coming here, because I figured this place was one hell of a sweet scam you'd dreamed up."

"She did mention something to that effect, yes," Roarke recalled.

Hamilton looked quite annoyed and put out at having to make the admission as he grumbled, "Well, since Leslie came to live here, I've been shown on countless occasions just how wrong I was about that. I've been given to understand that this place is the gateway, if you will, for all sorts of interaction between mortals and…uh, others. And I was also in-formed in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to get through to Leslie, I'd have to do it here, the only place where it was possible."

"Correct," Roarke said tonelessly.

"All right, then," Hamilton said. "As much as it galls me to do it…I have no choice. I've waited for some way to resolve my so-called existence for what seems like ages, and now the time's finally come—but I don't like the way it has to be done."

Roarke smiled, amused. "Then allow me to do it for you, Mr. Hamilton. You wish to request a fantasy of me, and that fantasy would be to persuade Leslie to help you escape the limbo you are now in and find some measure of peace."

"Such as it would be, yes," Hamilton said. "I'm told that I'll be punished one way or another for my misdeeds. Not that I care, because I was right and I know it. But I've had it with wandering between worlds and being unable to do anything except drift aimlessly." He hefted the gasoline can and glared at it. "I'm particularly fed up with hauling this damn thing around. So I want out, and I need Leslie's help to get there. Can you do that?"

Roarke regarded him long enough that he began to look faintly anxious in spite of himself, and finally tilted his head to one side just a little. "This may be the first fantasy I am unable to grant—for, unfortunately for you, Leslie is the one you must ask, and I make no guarantees about her willingness to assist you."

"Then just give me the chance to actually talk to her," Hamilton said. "I can't make myself heard through those damn dreams—she never remembered them anyway once she woke up—so if you can get her to listen to me, then I'll do the rest myself."

"That, I believe I can do," Roarke told him. "Very well, Mr. Hamilton. Return here tomorrow afternoon at exactly one o'clock, and we will proceed from there."

§ § § -- January 18, 1992

"You look better today, Miss Leslie," Mariki remarked at lunch, placing a bowl of linguine in marinara sauce on the table. "I could tell you were having trouble sleeping, and I guess you've cured that."

"I guess," murmured Leslie, perplexed. She waited till Mariki had left the veranda, then looked at Roarke. "I still don't understand why I didn't have the dream last night. Do you think something's going to happen?"

"Oh, it will," Roarke assured her. "Just be patient, Leslie."

She gave him a dubious look, but shrugged in resignation and began to eat. Neither of them said much throughout the meal, and they both declined dessert. Leaving Mariki to gather the dishes, they both arose from the table and started back for the door; on the way, Roarke unobtrusively checked his gold watch.

Leslie stepped into the foyer first, glanced into the room and halted so abruptly that Roarke nearly collided with her from behind. He steadied himself with a hand on each of her arms, just below the shoulders, and followed her gaze. Sure enough, Michael Hamilton's ghost, looking quite corporeal, was sitting in one of the club chairs, one leg crossed over the other, swinging the elevated foot. He turned when he heard them enter and stood up.

Roarke waited, watching Leslie and the ghost, while the two stared at each other. Finally Hamilton remarked, "Well, you grew into a pretty good-looking girl."

Leslie only stared back at him; Roarke let her loose, but made no comment. The silence grew electric. Finally the ghost demanded, "Well, say something!"

Obliging him, she snapped, "What are _you_ doing here?" She turned to Roarke and repeated the question. "What's he doing here?"

"He has requested an audience with you, Leslie," Roarke explained, "and I agreed to grant it to him. Before you protest any further, you should be interested to know that he has been responsible for those dreams you've been having all these years. If you truly wish to be freed of them, then you should hear him out."

Leslie turned back to the ghost with a curled lip and a roll of the eyes. "I should have known you were to blame," she said. "So fine, then. What do you want?"

"How thoroughly rude," Hamilton said, scowling at her. "I wonder if your mother really knew what she was doing when she put you in Roarke's care. His good manners don't seem to have rubbed off on you at all."

"I don't see any reason to be polite to you, after what you did," Leslie said curtly. "I wonder if you know that I saw every move you made that night? I was outside the whole time, watching you circling the house, splattering gas all over the walls."

Hamilton stared at her in astonishment; it was clear he hadn't known at all. "Is that a fact?" he said, and suddenly a cruel smile spread over his features. "If you knew what I was doing, why didn't you stop me?"

Stricken, Leslie gaped at him; her face drained of color, and Roarke put a hand on her arm for reassurance before addressing Hamilton. "Mr. Hamilton, I believe you are in need of Leslie's help," he reminded the ghost. "Baiting her in this manner certainly won't get you the assistance you seek. I suggest you stick to the reason you are here, because your time is limited—as I'm sure you know."

Hamilton sighed loudly. "All right, fine. The reason you see me here at all, Leslie, is because I'm in existential limbo. Ever since the night of the fire, I've been stuck in this kind of 'in-between' world. I can't go on to whatever fate awaits me, because I've been given to understand that I need your forgiveness before I can find any peace at all."

Her mouth dropped open and she actually stumbled back a step. "And you expect me to give it to you?" she croaked when she found her voice.

"You're supposed to," he said with a smirk. "I'm your father."

"No you're not," she shot back, on surer ground for a moment. "You weren't much of a father to me or the twins when you were alive, and I refuse to acknowledge you as such now. I disowned you years ago. You're nothing to me, Michael Hamilton—just the same way I was nothing to you."

Hamilton regarded her frigid glare and then turned to Roarke, a spark of interest in his eyes. "She's got backbone after all," he commented. "I thought she was going to turn out to be like her sister Kristy. That one was a serious crybaby." He returned his regard to Leslie, though his words were still addressed to a silent Roarke. "Y'know, she's gonna be a tougher nut to crack than I thought."

"Let's speak theoretically," Leslie suggested sarcastically. "Let's pretend you actually stood a chance of my forgiving you for the murders you committed that night. What would happen to you then?"

"Oh, well, then I'd get out of this limbo," Hamilton said with a shrug.

"You'd be doomed to the underworld, of course, wouldn't you?" Leslie prompted.

Hamilton peered at her. "You'd like that, huh? Yup, I'd literally go to hell."

Leslie nodded slowly. "Hmm, I see." She studied him for a moment, then spotted the gas can in his right hand and loosed a sharp crack of mirthless laughter. "Oh, that's rich. How Dickensian, you dragging that thing around like Marley's ghost. A very nice touch, whoever was responsible for it. But boy, I don't know whether to leave you in limbo or send you off to hell. Undoubtedly if I did the latter, you'd get the punishment you so desperately deserve. But if going to hell would give you peace…"

"You say," Roarke broke in then from behind his desk where he had retreated and taken a seat in his chair, "that you believe he deserves to be punished for killing your mother and your sisters, Leslie. Should that not make the choice easy for you?"

Leslie gave him a plaintive look. "It does sound very simple, doesn't it. But don't you remember what I've told you about this man across the years, Mr. Roarke? He never wanted kids; he made it abundantly clear to me and my sisters that he resented our very existence, and he treated us with contempt all the time. We always knew exactly where we stood with him. Kelly and I both detested him, and Kristy was terrified of him. The only reason the family stayed together till he blew it apart was Mom. She was the peacemaker, and she kept interceding for us. She made life as bearable for us as she could."

Roarke nodded slowly. "I understand, Leslie, and I am aware of your antipathy toward him. And I do remember what little you've told me of him in the past. But you might do well to remember what I told you one year when an orphaned gymnast came to the island, and you took her side despite the fact that she was in the wrong. Do you remember that fantasy?"

"Trudy Brown," Leslie said, nodding.

"Precisely," Roarke said. "We had a long talk that day, you and I, and you might recall that I told you that nurturing your anger, keeping it alive, would bring you nothing but a wasted life and reduce you to a bitter harpy whom no one could bear to be around. Do you remember that?"

Again Leslie nodded, reluctantly. "Yes, I do."

"Did you fail to ruminate on that advice?" Roarke asked gently.

"I was fifteen, Mr. Roarke," she said. "I was still very angry and I couldn't let go. And maybe that anger has been there too long for me to release it. It kept popping up through the years, from time to time."

"Yes, I seem to remember a threat you once made to a guest who intended to see me killed," Roarke said, faintly amused momentarily. "Your fierce anger stems from what you have always felt toward Michael Hamilton. You must learn to dissolve that anger. You may find it anathema, Leslie, but you must do it—for your own peace of mind if nothing else."

She struggled to grasp the idea, to make some sense of it, but Roarke could tell that she didn't see at all how forgiving the man she so loathed would give her peace of mind. Before he could try to persuade her any further, Hamilton said, "Don't you think you'd be more satisfied to see me burning in hell? Nothing happens to me in limbo—all I do is plod around in some kind of alternate plane, without really suffering."

"Maybe the price is just too high for me," Leslie said, closing her eyes and swallowing thickly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke…" She turned away and raced out through the open French shutters, vanishing in a twinkling.

Roarke and Hamilton regarded each other, and Hamilton shrugged. "Yup, definitely a tough nut to crack. But I'll get through to my daughter, one way or another. She has to do her filial duty to me, after all."

"You're likely to have trouble convincing Leslie of that," Roarke observed. "I don't believe she considers herself your daughter. You heard her moments ago, announcing that she has long since disowned you."

"Ha," snorted Hamilton. "And has she ever referred to _you_ as her father?" Roarke frowned at him, the tiniest trace of doubt creeping into his dark eyes. "Yeah, I know you adopted my kid, but she calls you 'Mr. Roarke', not 'Dad'…and she still uses my surname, the one she was born with. So how can that mean she's accepted you over me? I think she still feels some kind of loyalty to me, some sort of obligation—which is only right, because as her father—her _real_ father, mind you—I'm due, and she owes me." He smirked at Roarke and lifted the gasoline can at him, as if raising a glass in a toast. "I'll be back later on to try again. See you then." So saying, he blinked out of sight. Roarke stared sightlessly at the place where he'd been, expression very pensive, mulling uncomfortably over Hamilton's words.


	4. Chapter 3

§ § § -- January 18, 1992

Leslie was gone for so long that Roarke, growing very worried, finally went in search of her, and found her sitting on a rock at the base of Fantasy Falls, huddled into herself. She sat with her knees drawn partway up, her elbows resting against them, her head in her hands as if it pained her. She didn't move even though she heard his footsteps approaching her. "Leslie, are you all right?" he asked gently.

"No," she mumbled. "I have the worst headache of my life, and I'm afraid if I try to go to sleep tonight, he'll be back, invading my dreams again."

Roarke settled onto the rock beside her and flattened one hand on her back, rubbing gently. "I realize your feelings about your father are very strong…" he began.

At that, Leslie's head came up sharply and she stared at him. "Michael Hamilton is not my father," she stated stonily. "I thought we established that already."

Roarke's own gaze chilled suddenly and he said, "Indeed? Perhaps you had better explain that to him."

Apprehension crept into her eyes and she asked, "What did he say to you?"

"Ask him yourself," Roarke suggested quietly and lifted his hand from her back, rising in one smooth, swift motion. "Come along, Leslie. You can't stay out here all night." With that, he started away down the path; she stared after him for a moment before following at some distance, a cold fear beginning to gnaw at her. Was he distancing himself from her? And if so, why?

At the main house Mariki served dinner, dividing her worried glances between Roarke, who maintained a cool silence, and Leslie, who looked frightened. Neither of them said anything, so she took her cue from them; but there was no doubt she wanted to ask a lot of questions. When she had finished dispensing the dishes from her cart, she sighed heavily and wheeled it back to the kitchen.

A wintry breeze curled around the veranda corner at that point and they both looked up; Roarke seemed resigned, Leslie startled. Quite out of nowhere, Michael Hamilton popped into view beside the table and surveyed what was on it. "Food," he said wistfully. "Boy, that's one thing I miss, being dead."

Quite deliberately, Leslie lifted a chunk of lamb chop and made a production of savoring it, staring tauntingly at him all the while. Roarke watched her in disapproval but said nothing; Hamilton rolled his eyes. "Quit being juvenile, Leslie, and act your age," he said, disgusted.

She shot him an insolent look, taking a cue from the way her sister Kelly had always treated him. "You don't have any right to tell me what to do," she informed him.

"Says who? I'm your father," Hamilton reminded her heatedly.

"No, Mr. Roarke is my father," Leslie retorted, "in almost every sense of the word. He adopted me, he raised me, he nurtured and provided for me—we may not be related by blood, but he's far more of a father to me than you ever bothered to be. So don't go trying to convince me you have any significance in my life. Your only contribution to my existence was to get Mom pregnant with me. After that you absolved all responsibility, and in so doing, you lost any right to call yourself my father. My father is, and always will be, Mr. Roarke. So you may as well get that straight right now."

Roarke, surprised and obviously moved, turned his gaze to Hamilton, who looked astonished. "Perhaps that addresses the issue you brought up to me earlier," he said.

Hamilton peered at Leslie with a unwilling respect in his eyes. "I guess so, mostly," he said at some length. Leslie flicked her surprised gaze back and forth between them.

"What're you talking about?" she asked.

Roarke only shook his head. "That isn't important now," he said and smiled at her, watching immense relief fill her eyes before she returned the smile threefold. Hamilton observed their interaction with sudden apprehension and doubt, then faded out of view without another word. Roarke looked around in time to see the last trace of his transparent form vanish. "No," he said, "the important thing is that you consider what lies at stake here. He believes that you owe him a certain duty, as a child to a father, to give him release; but there may be some question about precisely what you do owe him. That's probably why he must beg for your assistance in the matter."

Leslie nodded slowly, considering. "I'd been thinking about something at the falls," she said after a moment. "I was trying to understand the difference between limbo and hell. I always heard that being in limbo was hard on souls…well, good souls at least. I remember at least one fantasy where you helped a man who was in limbo. But there was no question about his deserving release to something better. In Michael Hamilton's case, the release is supposedly to something worse. Yet, he keeps talking about how awful it is to wander this intermediate plane…so I thought maybe you could help me understand, Mr. Roarke. Which is worse—being in limbo or being doomed to the netherworld?"

"Are you quite sure you want that question answered?" asked an entirely new voice, and they both turned sharply to see a familiar figure in a black suit with white tie standing nearby. His attire looked like a photographic negative of Roarke's; he was a slim man with sharp eyes and spare features. "Both limbo and hell have their bad qualities, young lady," he continued in a distinctly British lilt. "How else can you explain why so many souls in limbo want to get out of it?"

Roarke and Leslie regarded Mephistopheles warily. "I suppose we should have known you'd get yourself involved in this at some point," Leslie remarked.

"But of course, my dear child," Mephistopheles said in surprise, peering at Roarke. "Don't tell me, Roarke—you didn't explain things to her?"

"Well, if you're so anxious that she know, Mephistopheles," Roarke said mildly, settling comfortably back in his chair, "then perhaps you should have the honor of filling her in. Besides, you are undoubtedly far more involved in Michael Hamilton's case than I. Until he appeared here seeking her help, I had no more idea of his fate than she did."

"You have a point," Mephistopheles observed. "Very well, then. To put it bluntly, Leslie, Michael Hamilton has been trapped in his current existence for all these years because of the love your mother had for him. In spite of his heinous acts…" His voice trailed off and a smile spread across his face. "Ah, those acts. Very inventive for a mere mortal, I would say, especially in light of his reasons for committing them. There was a particular cruelty about them that truly impresses me."

"Stop it," Leslie choked, hands around her throat, face white.

Roarke sighed impatiently, suddenly quite angry on her behalf. "Amazing as it seems, I hadn't thought you so base as to resort to scare tactics; but I seem to have been in error. Leslie's soul is not yours to torture, Mephistopheles. Kindly refrain from embellishing your explanation with such comments."

"_Sorry,"_ Mephistopheles huffed and rolled his eyes. "As I was saying, in spite of Hamilton's actions, your mother's voice intervened on his behalf, pleading for forgiveness. Now, I am not normally one to entertain a request from…up there…" Mephistopheles shot a mocking look skyward. "…but other sources besides your mother interceded. It seems that Shannon Hamilton was an exceptionally saintly sort, and evidently her appeal counted for something. I had to answer to that authority, and that left Michael Hamilton in the lurch."

Leslie, calm again, cast him a heavily-ironic gaze and said sardonically, "And you just couldn't stand to be cheated out of a soul, could you? So you told him to appeal to me."

"Brilliant!" Mephistopheles exclaimed, beaming. "I must admit, Roarke, she's become quite worthy of you. Yes, at first Hamilton thought he was escaping his just punishment for his misdeeds, but then I explained precisely what he'd experience on this plane. No one ever told me I couldn't exact a little advance retribution, so I may have exaggerated a bit."

"That gasoline can," Leslie said, the specter of a smile flicking the corner of her mouth for perhaps a millisecond. "That was your idea, then."

"Certainly was," Mephistopheles said cheerfully. "Inspired, don't you think? Well, Hamilton eventually came to me and begged me to put him out of his misery. He'd been trying for years, as I'm sure you know, Roarke, to send Leslie messages through those nightmares she had every now and then when she was under stress. Problem is, one of the terms of his release was that he had to wait one day for every day of Leslie's age when he murdered her mother and sisters; and that wasn't a condition I had laid down, so I couldn't get around it. But when that time had finally elapsed, I suggested he go to you. The edict from on high was still pending, but he was perfectly willing to give up his choice of heaven." He regarded Leslie meaningfully. "I'll be quite happy to take his soul, but the admissions price to hell is your forgiveness."

Leslie's features took on a stubborn, mutinous cast and she eyed him. "I'm sure you realize that's pretty much impossible," she said.

"Not quite as sweet and saintly as your dear mother, apparently," Mephistopheles said, lightly mocking. "I suppose that's understandable. If you fail to forgive him, he'll simply go on wandering through no-man's-land, toting that petrol container along with him for eternity. But is that enough punishment to satisfy you, Leslie?"

She found herself caught up short and stared at him for a moment, then turned helplessly to Roarke for some kind of support. But he simply smiled faintly at her. "I can't help you, my child," he said gently. "The decision rests entirely with you."

"Mind you," Mephistopheles interjected, as if struck by an idea, "I've been promised a soul out of all this—and one way or another, I intend to get one. If not Michael Hamilton's, then…hmm, wouldn't Roarke's soul make a wonderful substitute?"

"You can't drag Mr. Roarke into this," Leslie protested, incensed. "He has nothing to do with it, so you have no basis for a claim on his soul."

"Oh, come now, you know all too well that I've been trying to get his soul for eons," Mephistopheles said, "and I'm really quite tired of waiting. Besides, flimsy though it may seem to you, Leslie, I do have grounds for a claim. The man you so willingly call father made a promise to Shannon Hamilton nearly twenty-seven years ago, to raise you to adulthood and to protect you from harm. He'd never see any danger to you, especially at my hands. I discovered that quite a few years ago, the last time we had an encounter." Roarke and Leslie looked at each other long enough to smile slightly with the memory, before Mephistopheles shattered what little was left of Leslie's composure by saying, "So if I don't get Michael Hamilton's soul, then I shall take Roarke's."


	5. Chapter 4

§ § § -- January 19, 1992

Leslie's sleep was so badly disturbed by dreams that night that she got in little more than two hours of it in aggregate. When Roarke expressed concern over breakfast on Sunday morning, she remarked with weary incredulity, "I'm surprised one of those dreams wasn't another of Michael Hamilton's so-called 'messages' to me."

Roarke smiled. "Now that he can speak directly to you, there is no need for him to try to communicate with you through your dreams." The smile faded and he regarded her with an expression she couldn't read; it seemed to encompass every emotion and none all at once in some unexplainable paradox. "I have been given to understand that you must make your decision tonight, Leslie. Have you come any closer to reaching it?"

She threw him one tormented look before letting her head fall forward and shaking it miserably. "No, Mr. Roarke, I haven't…" She shuddered in her chair and finally scrambled out of it. "I'm not very hungry. I can't think. Please excuse me." She rushed off the veranda, leaving her troubled father behind her, unsure just what she was looking for but wishing she could free herself from the load she now bore.

She had been stumbling forlornly along a path for awhile when she heard a familiar voice hailing her, and looked up to see Camille Omamara, walking the family dog. "What're you doing running around the jungle on a Sunday morning? Thought you were supposed to be in the middle of a busy weekend."

Leslie stopped and watched her approach, too exhausted both emotionally and physically to do more than give her a wan smile in reply. Camille caught up with her and hooked the dog's leash to a nearby tree branch before taking a closer look at Leslie. "Hey…what happened to you? You okay?"

"No," Leslie admitted, beaten. "Oh God, Camille, I have to tell someone. I just can't stand it. We're all too involved to look at this objectively—me most of all." She drew in a deep breath and stared at Camille with tortured eyes. "Do you remember my telling you how I wound up on Fantasy Island in the first place?" Camille nodded questioningly, and Leslie said, "Well…I…we're dealing with the ghost of Michael Hamilton."

"Your fa…I mean, your birth father?" Camille caught herself, taking care to use the phrase Leslie herself usually employed in reference to Hamilton. At Leslie's nod, she asked in amazement, "Why now, after all this time?"

Leslie wilted against a tree trunk and told Camille the entire story thus far, without looking up. When she finished, for a few minutes all that was audible was the piercing summons of some tropical bird in the near distance and the snuffling of the dog.

Then Camille cursed. "You want to know something, Leslie Hamilton? I don't care how emotionally involved you are. The whole thing sounds perfectly obvious to me. You tell Hamilton you forgive him and let Satan cart him off to the fiery pits, and that's the end of the whole issue." Leslie looked up and started to protest, but Camille cut her off. "I don't care! The way you're talking, you hate your birth father more than you love the father who raised you. Do you really think that's right? If that's how it is, then frankly, you deserve whatever you get out of this. There won't be a soul on this island who doesn't hate you and hold you totally and solely responsible for condemning Mr. Roarke like that. And if you think you were alone in the world when Mike Hamilton orphaned you, just wait till the devil takes Mr. Roarke. You'll really learn the meaning of 'alone' then, Leslie Hamilton, I can promise you that. No one on earth will ever want anything to do with you. Cryin' out loud, if you can't see the obvious solution to all this, then you must be pretty stupid. I thought you were a decent person, but geez…you're turning out to be really petty and obtuse." She scowled at Leslie and reclaimed the dog's leash. "Happy decision-making." So saying, she marched away down the path, the dog trotting alongside her, leaving a dumbfounded Leslie staring after her.

_She doesn't understand…_ Leslie thought frantically. _She doesn't get it! Would she be so quick to forgive if she were in my shoes? _ But there was a little voice in her head arguing against her stubborn emotions, telling her Camille was right.

_I'm no better than he is,_ she thought in anguish. _Mephistopheles was right: I'm not like Mom at all, and I think I inherited some of Michael's sadistic streak. I must have, if I find this decision so hard. And Camille's probably right…I'd be a pariah on this island if I let anything happen to Mr. Roarke. I couldn't even go to Tattoo for refuge—he'd hate me for dooming the best friend he ever had. _She stood there agonizing, tears streaming down her cheeks unnoticed, and slowly came to a conclusion toward which she suspected she'd been drifting all morning._ There's really only one thing to do. I should go back and tell Mr. Roarke, and maybe it'll make up for everything I haven't said or done._

Fear snaked its way through her with every step she took back to the main house. The sun beat down on her head and the island looked as fresh and beautiful as ever, exploding with tropical splendor; as she took in the sights around her, she thought it incongruous that everything should be so bright and cheerful, so peculiarly _normal_, in light of her circumstances. By the time she let herself into Roarke's office, she was a wreck; her face was streaked with the tracks of tears, her posture drooping, her demeanor that of utter defeat. Roarke watched her come in and arose from his desk.

"Leslie, where have you been all morning?" he asked.

She shuffled to a stop in the middle of the floor and seemed to shrink into herself. "I finally came to a conclusion," she murmured, barely audible to Roarke.

When she didn't elaborate, he approached her and lifted her chin. "Tell me."

Her eyes looked dull and lifeless, and every word she spoke alarmed him, until her final pronouncement galvanized him. "I can't forgive Michael Hamilton, no matter how much I try to convince myself I should. I just can't find it in my heart to do it. But…I won't let Mephistopheles take your soul, either. You never did anything to get involved in this godawful mess, and it's just plain wrong for you to take the consequences." She drew in a slow, ragged breath. "But Mephistopheles is going to insist on payment of some sort, so the only possible thing to do is let him take _my_ soul. And that's what I'll do when we meet him tonight. It's the only way out."

Roarke stared at her, absolute horror in his eyes; she had never seen such emotional vulnerability in him. It took him at least a minute or so to regroup; then determination supplanted the shock and he hugged her hard. "No," he said fiercely. "No, Leslie, that's completely unacceptable."

She clung to him, shaking. "It's the only way, Mr. Roarke," she insisted.

"No!" Roarke drew back long enough to cradle her head in his hands, gazing intently at her. "Don't give up so readily, Leslie. Don't lose heart: we are not yet beaten. I believe there is still a way. I may be able to contact someone who can help you." He released her and brought her to a chair, where he insisted she sit before he took the one opposite her and leaned forward. "Give me your hands, Leslie, and lean forward so that your head touches mine." Puzzled, she followed his instructions, staring bewilderedly at him; he smiled briefly in reassurance. "Now close your eyes and think back as far as you can remember. Call back your happiest memories and concentrate on them."

With heads touching and hands intertwined, they sat in silence; and Leslie groped back to the dimmest recesses of her memory, reaching for elusive snippets like blurry snap-shots, grasping for them and trying to examine them. Her first clear memory came at the age of about three and a half; she and her mother had been playing their game of saying goodbye to the old year on New Year's Eve, a tradition that Shannon and Leslie had shared with no one else and which Leslie continued even now in her adulthood. She could still hear her mother's voice, being thankful for friends, and happy times, and still having Kristy around after the child's recent bout with the flu, and having a nice house to live in and her grandmother to spoil her and her sisters and give them little presents. As if in a dream, she felt Roarke loose one of her hands and smooth back her hair. "Perfect, my daughter," he said softly, his voice carrying to her as on the wind. "Now…concentrate on your mother as she looked on the very last night of her life, when you were saying goodbye to her."

The memory came back with little provocation, quite clear and sharp in Leslie's mind. Shannon had been forty-six years old, she realized, but had never seemed old to Leslie. But now she could see the strain in Shannon's eyes, the gradual loss of hope and happiness, as if perhaps she had known that something was going to happen.

In the silent, sunlit room, Leslie's voice drifted out on a pleading moan. "Mom…"

She was unaware of Roarke rising, pulling her to her feet at the same time and gathering her close, without ever opening his eyes. Once more Leslie relived the fire and its aftermath, sounding like the thirteen-year-old she had been as she called for her mother in a tiny, bereft voice. Roarke's handsome features began to show signs of strain as he tilted his head back slightly, appealing silently to other forces.

The entire room darkened and the sun seemed to disappear; only a soft light bathed Roarke and Leslie in its glow. A breeze eddied around the room and wrapped the pair in its warm flow, carrying with it a sweet delicate scent like some flower unknown on earth. Roarke opened his eyes and searched the darkness to his left; within seconds another light gradually brightened, and then a figure stepped into it. Roarke recognized it immediately and smiled, then turned to his daughter.

"Leslie," he said softly. Her eyes popped open and she looked blankly up at him; he smiled at her, then said, "Look to your right, child."

Unsure of what to expect, she slowly trained her gaze in that direction and then went absolutely still in his arms, not quite able at first to believe what she was seeing. Her grip on Roarke tightened almost painfully and she turned to him for confirmation. "Is…is it real?"

"Oh, it's very real," he assured her and set her back a step from him. "Go."

Leslie hesitated, taking in this amazing man with a look of incredible wonder on her face, and then turned and ran. "Mom," she cried, disbelieving, frantic and hopeful all at once. "Mom, is that really you?"

Shannon Hamilton caught her firstborn child and returned her emphatic embrace, both of them laughing and crying simultaneously. "It's really me," Shannon said, just as shaky as Leslie. "Mr. Roarke called me. I wasn't sure what to expect, but oh, Leslie, look at you. I knew you'd be in good hands under his care." She turned, and Leslie followed suit, both gazing at Roarke, who stood in the near distance watching. In accord they each stretched a hand toward him, and he came to join them. Leslie's eyes were alight; to her it felt rather like a family reunion, with her mother and the man she considered father here with her at the same time.

They looked back at her and both chuckled at the same time. "You did an incredible job with her, Mr. Roarke," Shannon said finally. "I knew I made the right choice."

Roarke smiled dismissively. "She has been quite an asset to me," he said. "But I must advise you that time is of the essence here. Leslie desperately needs help—help that I believe only you can provide her, at a time and in a situation that calls for nothing less. You must work this out between yourselves; I have no say in this matter. I am told that you will have as much time as you need to resolve the problem—but you must use it wisely. There can never be another opportunity for you, do you understand?"

Mother and daughter nodded solemnly. "I'll do what I can for her, Mr. Roarke. I just want to thank you for all you've given her—and for the stunning favor you did me. It would be impossible for me to express the proper gratitude for your generosity." Shannon grasped his hand and smiled. "The world needs more like you."

"I'll second that," agreed Leslie emphatically.

Roarke laughed softly. "I appreciate the sentiments," he said, already backing away. "Now I'll leave you to yourselves. As I said, use the time wisely." They watched him retreat, then turned their attention to each other.

"I guess you must know what's going on," Leslie said.

Shannon nodded. "You've suffered more than enough at Michael's hands, Leslie. I hear you were planning to sacrifice yourself, after Mephistopheles backed you into a corner, because you can't forgive Michael."

"I tried, Mom," Leslie protested helplessly. "But what he did to you and Kristy and Kelly was just too horrible. He murdered the three of you and he'd gladly have murdered me too, if I hadn't been lucky enough to be outside." Her eyes misted over and lost focus. "Did you know I waited for you to come out after the fire? I kept waiting for a miracle to happen. I couldn't accept that it wasn't going to, until I saw the remains of the house in daylight the next morning…"

"Leslie, I'm sure Mr. Roarke has told you on any number of occasions that the past can't be changed. Once something's done, it stays done, and no amount of wishing or begging or plea-bargaining can ever undo it. I can see that you've been carrying that lump of anger with you ever since the fire. I know your feelings, Leslie, believe me. Did Mr. Roarke ever tell you about my own fantasy, just before you were born?" Shannon waited till Leslie had focused on her, then went on: "Everything you remember from the night of the fire, I saw too, and so did he. That was what I saw in the third vision Mr. Roarke showed me that weekend in 1965. For us, it was like watching a movie. I saw you hide in the bushes when Michael's car came down the street, I saw him start splashing the house with gasoline, and I saw you start to cross the yard and then hide in the tree. We didn't understand what was happening at the time. Even Mr. Roarke didn't have any answers for it. We saw it all—the house going up, you falling from the tree and calling for me, and Michael's death."

Jarred, Leslie clutched her mother for support. "I don't remember that part…"

"You saw that he was too close to the house, and I think gas had been splashing onto him from the can, maybe dripping onto him from the walls too. But when the air-conditioning unit set off that rogue spark, he went up in flames just the way the house did. He died a truly horrible death, Leslie. Didn't you see that?"

Revulsion tinged Leslie's expression. "No…maybe it's just as well. Oh, God." She shuddered and gave her mother a plaintive look. "I was too busy watching for you and the twins to come out the door."

"Oh, honey, we were trapped," Shannon said softly, hugging her. "The twins were upstairs and didn't make it any farther than the hallway outside their room. And I was caught in the kitchen. The front door was blocked by a wall of fire and we had no way out. The house was a tinderbox—you know that."

"But I couldn't help wishing," Leslie whispered.

Shannon nodded. "I know. But as I said, Michael died a very gruesome death. I know that only because Mr. Roarke and I saw it in that vision."

"Then that's why he had burn scars all over him," Leslie realized. "He carries a gasoline can around all the time, too; he can't put it down. Now he wants my forgiveness. Mom, how can you ever forgive something like that? He doesn't even show any remorse!"

Shannon considered this. "Well, you might think it's not possible, Leslie…but here's a thought you might consider. When you keep that appointment with Mephistopheles tonight, take Mr. Roarke along, and vent at Michael. Clear up all your pain, bare your soul, put all the blame on him, whatever you feel you have to do; it's all part of the burden the devil will make him bear in hell. But listen to me, Leslie: if for no other reason, forgive him so you can free yourself of him. If you allow him to wander in limbo, he'll return periodically, whether through your dreams or as the ghostly form he's been taking on lately—and he'll never leave you alone. Forgive him, Leslie, and set yourself free. Michael may never rest, but believe me, you will."

Slack-mouthed with amazement at this new angle, Leslie mulled it over, let it sink in, then lifted her gaze to her mother's. "I never would have thought of that," she admitted at length. "I don't know how you got so wise, but…thank you for that, Mom."

Shannon smiled. "Do you think you can do that, Leslie?"

Leslie shrugged a little. "Well, when I look at it from that point of view, it suddenly seems possible. I'm so glad Mr. Roarke was able to call you back."

"Me too," Shannon said, glancing past Leslie and biting her lip. "My time's almost up, honey. I'm afraid we're going to have to cut this short. Just let me say this: let Mr. Roarke help you, and for heaven's sake, trust him, Leslie. You're his daughter, you know, and he loves you as if you'd been born to him. Because of the way Michael treated you and the twins, you've held back from him, ever so slightly. Don't do that to him. It's little enough repayment for all he's done for you. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Leslie nodded, her eyes beginning to gleam with tears. "You're coming through loud and clear, Mom." She caught her breath. "Will I ever see you again?"

Shannon's gaze turned regretful. "Not like this, honey, I'm afraid not. This was a special case, and we'll never have this chance again. But don't ever forget, I love you, and I always will."

"I love you too, Mom," Leslie murmured, her voice dying as Shannon's form rapidly faded to mist and then altogether out of sight. She reached out, as though she could grasp some essence of her mother's spirit; and when she did, all the lights went out. A second later, normal lighting returned and she found herself standing in Roarke's study, near the steps across the room from the desk where Roarke stood waiting and watching her. He smiled faintly and held out his arms; without hesitation, Leslie walked straight into his embrace and hugged him with everything in her.


	6. Chapter 5

§ § § -- January 19, 1992

By now they were familiar with the procedure: they arrived in a predesignated clearing at exactly 11:45, and waited quietly for their opponents' appearance. Leslie, her mind still echoing with her mother's words, held Roarke's hand to bolster her meager courage, feeling very much like the insecure thirteen-year-old who had first arrived on the island all those years ago.

"Punctual as ever, I see," remarked a voice, and Mephistopheles stepped out of a mist backlit in red. The flowers in closest proximity to him withered as he brushed by them, dangling lifelessly from their stems. Behind him, Michael Hamilton's battered ghost emerged, waving away the red smoke with irritation.

"Of course. You, on the other hand, are forty-five seconds late," Roarke observed.

"Details, details. If you must know, I was held up by Mr. Hamilton here, although when you're as busy as I am, it's sometimes difficult to be precise. Well, then, shall we commence?" Mephistopheles regarded Leslie with a raised eyebrow. "You look a little apprehensive, my dear girl. Presumably that means you've reached a decision."

"Oh, I have," Leslie said, nodding.

Michael Hamilton smirked. "I just bet. You have to be the most stubborn kid I've ever come across."

She only looked at him without expression, and Mephistopheles chuckled. "Just as much animosity as ever, I see. Well, there's time for you to vent whatever you feel like saying to him, Leslie. Go ahead."

Leslie looked at Roarke, who smiled. "Well, as they say, it's your show, my child." He released her hand and stepped back, as if relinquishing a stage to her.

Leslie thought carefully for a moment, then regarded Hamilton with a scowl. "I'm told you burned to death when the house went up."

"Just now noticed the scars?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "Oh, I saw them, but I didn't understand how you got them."

"I don't see how you could've missed watching me go up like a cinder," Hamilton scoffed. "You yourself said you were in the tree, watching every move I made. Which, by the way, brings me to a question I brought up yesterday." Again the cruel leer spread over his face. "One you never answered. If you knew what I was doing, how come you didn't try to stop me?"

"I _didn't_ know what you were doing," Leslie said. "It was dark, and I didn't know it was a gas can you were holding. Anyway, something told me I was better off staying out of your sight. With your temper, I knew my efforts would go for nothing. And in hindsight, it's a good thing I didn't try. I'd have been killed too—you'd have seen to that."

Hamilton, clearly surprised by her reasoning, stared at her, unable to refute this. Finally he admitted, "Yeah, you're probably right. My intention was to kill all four of you, after all."

"_Why?"_ Leslie shouted unexpectedly. The question had hovered in her mind ever since the day after the fire, when she'd been taken back to the burned-out house and realized that her parents and sisters were gone forever. "Why under the sun would you do such a cruel, heinous thing? What's wrong with you? Do you have no conscience, no feeling at all for anyone other than yourself? Why did you do it?"

"Life was good for us before you and your sisters came along," Hamilton snapped, eyeing her oddly. "Shannon and I had been married ten years before you were born, and those were ten damn good years. We had the freedom to do anything we wanted, anytime."

"Oh, baloney," Leslie retorted. "Is that the best you can come up with?"

"Something about that reasoning rings false," Roarke observed thoughtfully from behind them.

"I'll say," said Mephistopheles, looking a little surprised at the idea that he was agreeing with Roarke on something. "After all, if that were truly the reason you set that fire, Hamilton, you wouldn't have killed your wife along with the children."

"Indeed," Roarke concurred.

"So come on," Leslie prodded, pressing her advantage when she saw the trapped look in Hamilton's eyes. "What was the real reason?" He didn't answer, backing away a few steps, watching her warily. After a moment something popped into her head and she turned to Roarke, eyes widening with realization. "It must have been the family curse."

Hamilton spat out a particularly hefty swear word that made Mephistopheles peer at him with appreciation. "There was no curse. It was just a load of superstitious hog manure. I kept telling your mother that, but she wouldn't buy it. That's what made her come here in the first place, because she wanted to save you from that so-called curse, you ungrateful little wretch."

"Ungrateful to whom?" Leslie parried. "If you think I'm ungrateful, you need to remember that you haven't done anything to warrant gratitude from me. Mom was the one who appealed to Mr. Roarke, not you, so she's the one who deserves gratitude for placing me in his safety. I don't believe you—I think you were convinced there was a curse, and that had something to do with why you tried to destroy us all."

"I believe you're right, Leslie," Roarke said. "Very good."

"There wasn't any curse, dammit!" Hamilton bellowed.

"Yes, there was," Roarke corrected him. "Perhaps if you hadn't expended so much energy denying its existence, you would have been motivated to investigate further. The original curse was instigated on a very distant ancestor of yours in Salem, Massachusetts, during the era of the witch trials. When Leslie came to Fantasy Island, I did some reading and discovered that Mephistopheles here extended a bargain to the Jamaican slave Tituba to exact her revenge on the Hamilton family for thirteen generations in retaliation for an insult, at the end of which time she was to become his apprentice should she succeed in destroying all the members of each of those thirteen generations."

Hamilton dragged his free hand across his forehead and barked impatiently, "I know all that, Roarke. I checked with my parents and some history texts. Since you insist on knowing, _that's_ why I set the fire—I figured to beat that woman at her own game. It might have worked, too…" He glared at Leslie, who rolled her eyes.

"Oh, you idiot," she said tiredly. "You obviously didn't do enough research. It just so happens that I'm the thirteenth generation. If you'd left us alone, we'd have had only to survive and live out a normal life, and the curse would have been broken."

Hamilton stared at her, frozen in place, his expression that of someone who sees a Mack truck bearing down on him. "How the hell—?"

"We all survived the first fire in Connecticut, the one that killed _mormor,"_ Leslie reminded him. "Then in Susanville, I survived the second fire, the one Mom found out about when she came here. I have a sneaking feeling you intended to be the one who survived that fire instead of me, except for your own clumsy miscalculations. The third fire happened the day after I got here, and Mr. Roarke helped me survive that one. It was absurdly easy by then, because the curse was so old that technology had caught up with, and surpassed, the abilities Mephistopheles gave Tituba. I'd made it alive through three fires, and I broke the curse—the one you claimed not to believe in."

Hamilton had been gaping at her, speechless with mounting horror, all through this narrative. Now he turned to Mephistopheles and reached out. "Is that true?"

"I'm afraid so," Mephistopheles said casually. "Tituba didn't fulfill her end of the bargain, so I made short work of her. So you see, there was a reason you had children after all, Hamilton. If you'd let them, they could have saved you simply by existing."

Hamilton, white-faced, collapsed to his knees, finally fully cognizant of exactly what he had done and the futility of it all. His head fell back and he let out a long, protesting wail of "NOOOO!" that echoed around the clearing and into the night. Leslie watched him, her expression reflecting disbelief and some wonder. Michael Hamilton raised his burned hands to the sky, gasoline can and all, and entreated to the heavens. "Shannon, please, forgive me…it was all for nothing. I'm sorry, Shannon, I'm sorry…"

His anguish was as genuine as any Leslie had ever seen, and something seemed to shift within her. _He really loved Mom, after all, in his peculiar warped way,_ she thought. _And now he's down to this—this last-minute plea for absolution. _She slid a glance over her shoulder at Roarke, who watched in silence, and then at Mephistopheles, who was plainly amused. "You're making a spectacle of yourself, Hamilton," he commented. "You're a bit late to try to save your pathetic carcass now." Somewhere in the distance a somber-toned bell began to clang, and he, Roarke and Leslie all automatically lifted their gazes and looked around as if they could see it. "What's it to be, Leslie? Time to make your choice."

Hamilton had dropped to all fours and was staring at Leslie, tears streaming down his pale, scarred cheeks. His eyes seemed to have glazed over and though his gaze was on Leslie, he saw someone else altogether. "Shannon, I'm sorry," he sobbed.

She drew in a deep breath and spoke quietly and deliberately. "I forgive you, Michael," she said. "Now go."

Mephistopheles blew out an exasperated breath. "Damn it all, Roarke," he complained irritably, "you escaped me again. Saved by your own daughter, of all people."

"What are you whining about? You got a soul, after all," Leslie pointed out.

"Oh, you know I was hoping for Roarke's," Mephistopheles grumbled. "And for a while there, I thought I was finally going to get it. Ah, well, perhaps next time. After all these years, I finally have clearance to do what I will with Michael Hamilton's soul." He peered at Leslie with unenthusiastic admiration. "You play rather a good game, dear girl. It seems Roarke taught you well. Never fear, we'll meet again one day." He strolled over to Hamilton's prone form and hauled him to his feet by one arm, then flicked his fingers at the sobbing ghost's hand. The gas can dropped from it and hit the ground with a hollow thud. "Come along, Hamilton." The final stroke of the bell died away, and Mephistopheles made an uncharacteristically flashy exit, stomping one foot on the ground and causing a loud, deep _boom_ to go off. The ground rocked under Roarke's and Leslie's feet and a huge red flame blasted out of the soil, swallowing Mephistopheles and Michael Hamilton before dying out as suddenly as it had appeared. Leslie, who had automatically cringed aside at the noise and slammed her hands over her ears, slowly lowered them and straightened up. On the ground lay the gas can—the only evidence that the devil and the ghost had been there at all.

Leslie released a cautious breath and turned to find Roarke standing by her side. "A remarkable performance, my daughter," he commended her.

She smiled shyly and ventured, "Thanks…Father."

Roarke's dark eyes went wide with genuine surprise for a moment; then they warmed and he wrapped an arm securely around her shoulder. She turned to him and gave him a long hug, sheepish, but feeling secure and completely safe for what she was sure must be the first time in her life. "Mom was right," she blurted in wonder, stricken with the realization, pulling back and staring up at him. "She said forgiving him would set me free, and it did."

"There, you see? Mothers know best," Roarke said teasingly, eliciting a giggle from her. "Moreover, you will never again have the nightmares that plagued you for all those years. You've freed yourself from those as well."

"Now that is one huge relief," Leslie said with emphasis, grinning. "I guess it's time for us to go home and get some sleep—some _undisturbed_ sleep. Oh, and I guess we'd better take that gas can along with us and dispose of it properly."

"What gas can?" asked Roarke blankly.

"That one there on the—" Leslie turned, pointing, only to see nothing but an expanse of grass in front of them. She frowned, stymied. "But it was there just a minute ago."

Roarke quickly stifled a smile before she turned back to him and saw it. "Oh?" he responded mildly. "Clearly, there is nothing there now. Come along, child, it's late, and we do need some rest." He led her toward the nearest path, casting her a sidelong glance of amusement when she flung one last puzzled look over her shoulder at the empty clearing.

THE END

* * *

_I referred briefly to the episode "High Off the Hog / Reprisal" (second story arc), first broadcast on January 10, 1981, featuring Maureen McCormick in the role of Trudy Brown. I have also borrowed the character of Mephistopheles, as portrayed by the late Roddy McDowall, from the episodes "The Devil and Mandy Breem / Instant Millionaire" (first telecast October 25, 1980) and "The Devil and Mr. Roarke / Kid Corey Rides Again / Ziegfeld Girls" (first shown October 17, 1981)._


End file.
